


Fractals Upon Fractals

by cedarbranch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Spiral Siblings, The Distortion, michael lives and helen gets a distorted roommate. for free!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: “There was never meant to be two of us,” said Helen.Or: Michael and Helen play a game of chess, and work out what it means exist in duplicate.
Relationships: Michael & Helen Richardson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 168





	Fractals Upon Fractals

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is very fond of the concept of michael surviving helen's takeover of the distortion and being forced into a tense-roommates sort of situation with her..... i am also very fond of this concept

Helen picked up the first pawn and moved it across the board.

She didn’t move first because she was playing the white side, but rather, because she felt like it. They didn’t play in black and white anyway; that would be terribly out of place. The pieces constantly changed in shape and color, shifting from pink to green to yellow to luminous chrome. The rules changed, too.

So Helen made the first move.

Somewhere in the vagueness of the Spiral’s hallways, Michael could feel some wanderer drifting about. It wouldn’t be much longer before they were fully consumed. Helen had taken them a few days ago, twisting doors and corridors into being for the poor soul to lose themselves in. Michael had watched. 

Michael didn’t like watching. 

“I think it’s time we had a talk,” said Helen.

“Agreed,” said Michael. He picked up a pawn and placed it in the next available square, somewhere to the left of his head. To the extent that directions could be defined as right or left, anyway. 

“There was never meant to be two of us,” said Helen, surveying the board. Her eyes swirled with colors and patterns that could almost suck Michael in if he weren’t so used to it. For her next move, she took the piece she had previously chosen and moved it one space ahead. An awfully linear decision for something like her. 

Michael placed a pawn on the narrow section of board that ran between the legs of the table, right where it intersected with itself. “We were never meant to be at all,” he said. “I was not, and then I was. You were not, and now you are. It’s a funny thing, existing, but you do get used to it.”

Helen sighed. “I am… adjusting,” she said, moving a piece in another infuriatingly straight line. “But I do think we should lay out some ground rules.”

Michael laughed. The sound spilled over the edges of itself. “Helen Richardson,” it said, testing the weight of the syllables. “You _are_ a surprise.”

“Just Helen will do,” she replied.

“Tell me then, Just Helen, why on earth do you think we would need rules?” Michael pushed an amorphous chess piece bearing a slight resemblance to a bishop into place. “Rules require definitions. Objective standards.” He tilted his head, and Helen’s form blurred at the edges, doubling briefly. “You would not be here if you believed in the objective,” he said.

“There are only a few matters of consequence,” Helen said. She moved her knight two squares forward and one to the side, somehow forming a perfect L even as the board changed places halfway through her move. It made Michael’s fingers twitch. “Firstly, let’s try not to kill each other.”

Michael snickered. “It seems you’ve already failed at that one.”

“And look where it got us. I don’t want to find out what happens if two pieces of the Distortion turn against each other, so let’s stay civil, shall we?” 

“That sounds like a good plan,” said Michael. He flicked a piece across the board into the space cornering Helen’s. “Check,” he said, and stuck one fingertip through the piece, splitting it in two. One half fell to the floor with a soft, echoing click; the other rolled off the table and onto a different part of the board. Helen silently moved a pawn and took the half-piece for her own.

“Second. Don’t spy on me,” she said.

Michael snorted. “Spying,” he said derisively. “Who do you take me for, your Archivist?” 

“My business is my own,” Helen said shortly. “And that leads me to my third, most important point. Do not get in my way.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, we are different people, and we want different things. Sometimes, those things will come into conflict, and when that happens, we cannot go sabotaging each other.”

“Sabotage,” Michael said slowly. “That is a way of thinking about it. What would you consider sabotage, then, Helen Richardson?” 

“You can just call me Helen,” she said.

“No,” said Michael. 

“Fine. If you deliberately interfere with events in a way that goes against my wishes, that would be sabotage, and I’d like to avoid it if at all possible,” she said, an itch of irritation layering beneath her words. 

A giggle slipped from Michael’s lips. It rang in his ears, bouncing off the walls and pounding over and over into his skull, undulating in waves as he laughed harder. His chest didn’t ache for breath the way it once did, but he still found himself gasping. “Deliberate interference,” he said, giddy. “Do you really think I would? We already agreed that I wouldn’t spy on you, Helen Richardson, so how could I ever knowingly interfere with your plans?” 

He wasn’t sure whose turn it was anymore. He picked up a rook and set it—well, somewhere, it didn’t really matter. Helen moved her bishop in a diagonal line. Michael reflexively knocked it off the board and replaced it with one of his own. Helen didn’t react, simply making another move. 

“We both know you could find a way,” she said, “so I figured I ought to warn you off it now. Otherwise, you’re free to do as you please.”

“I always am,” said Michael. 

“Quite,” said Helen. 

She moved her glittering queen over a few spaces. 

The movement itched. 

Michael dug his fingers into the edge of the table, clawing marks deep into the wood. “Why do you keep doing that?” he asked, before he could stop himself. 

“Doing what?” Helen asks. 

“Moving like that,” he said. The wood groaned as his fingers sunk in deeper. “ _Linear_.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I suppose I just felt like it. Are you going to make a move?” Helen looked pointedly at the board. 

Michael drew his fingers back. “You still care very much about what happens in the real world,” he said, almost accusingly. “As if there is such a thing at all. You pass yourself off as a human being, but you can only lie to others, Wanderer. Denial does not suit a thing like us.”

Helen was quiet. Static ate at the edges of her hair. 

“If you’re not going to move, I’ll do it myself,” she said. 

“Why do you _care_?” Michael snapped. “Why do you make rules and force them into places they don’t belong?” The board folded in on itself, splitting and reforming in new places. No. That wouldn’t do. Michael gritted his teeth, and it slipped into a shape vaguely resembling its previous position. He couldn’t get it quite right, though. The memory was already gone.

“I never wanted you, so why are you _here_?” he asked. 

“Because you never understood how this works,” Helen said calmly.

“There is nothing _to_ understand.”

“And yet.” Helen spreads her long, spindly fingers, gesturing to the board. “Here we are. What I think you fail to understand, Michael, is that I am not the one who is in denial. I have never lied to myself about my own nature. Do you understand?”

“No,” Michael said with a scowl. 

“I ‘pass myself off as a human being,’ as you put it, because in many ways I am still a person. But I act with the knowledge that Helen Richardson is not _all_ I am. You, on the other hand, pretend that you are only a monster, all while the loudest human parts of you consistently act out. I always thought we liked that about you, the contradictions. Now, I think it was the opposite. You… _try_ too hard.”

“Michael Shelley is gone,” Michael snarled. 

“Yes. And also… no.” Helen tilted her head. “I know you don’t like it, the in-betweenness of it all, but that is precisely what you were made to be. You are a what, but you _could_ be a who, if you wanted. You could be both.”

The doors around them doubled, new spaces popping into existence wherever they could. The wood frames collided and multiplied, forming a kaleidoscope of motion and color. “I am not a who,” Michael seethed. “ _We_ are hunger and instinct and memory—”

“And confusion,” Helen said. “The whos and the whats and the hows don’t matter. You are you, we are us. And if you had stopped trying to define yourself as one thing or another, I doubt we would have ever needed to become a we in the first place.”

Somewhere, a door slammed shut. The sound ricocheted from the walls. Michael’s head ached. 

“But I’m here now, and I’m much less worried about our lack of identity, so hopefully we can be much more productive from here on out,” Helen said. “Oh, and checkmate, by the way.” She lifted her finger. Michael’s king was skewered on the end of it. 

“I don’t…” His voice faltered. “I—”

“Don’t worry about yourself too much, Michael. It’s hardly relevant any longer.” Helen stood up, and the table collapsed into a door. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Lovely chat. Thank you for being so understanding.” She flashed him a smile, edges too wide, and vanished through an exit that hadn’t been there a moment before, leaving the room empty.

Michael didn’t remember what it felt like to be truly alone. 

He had existed like this for too long to remember. He could never be alone within the Spiral, not while the curling corridors were so infinitely wrapped around him. He had always been surrounded by himself, whatever that meant. Whatever he _thought_ it meant. But it didn’t matter, because he would surely never feel it again now that he was as tied into Helen as she was into him.

And that was fine.

It was… fine, to be an us, instead of an I. _And_ an I?

He didn’t know anymore.

He wished he could remember what it felt like to be alone.


End file.
